


Reason to Celebrate

by Laeviss



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft, World of Warcraft - Various Authors
Genre: Birthday, Fluff, M/M, seriously, there are puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25271926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laeviss/pseuds/Laeviss
Summary: Garrosh learns it is Varian Wrynn's birthday, and finds himself fixating on the strange celebration and what Varian might expect from it.
Relationships: Garrosh Hellscream/Varian Wrynn
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	Reason to Celebrate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Flarenwrath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flarenwrath/gifts).



Garrosh was surprised to find Thrall still seated at his breakfast when he came in from his morning spar. The Warchief looked unconcerned, pressing a mug of coffee to his lips and mulling over a letter with a pensive look on his face. The Overlord coughed, cleared his throat, then dropped his axe to the floor with a clunk, and only then did the other orc lift his head to acknowledge him.

“Do you know what time it is?” Garrosh pressed, before Thrall had the chance to greet him. 

Unperturbed, the Warchief turned towards their purple-tinted window, then looked back at Garrosh with the hint of a smile, “About nine am, I suppose. The bath is unoccupied if you need it.”

Shooting a quick look down at himself, Garrosh realized that his linen shirt was soaked through with sweat and bits of grass clung to his boots. Instead of removing them, he grumbled, scraping his heel against the floor, leaving a brown streak across the white marble. Thrall said nothing, but his amiable look faltered, and Garrosh could feel the disappointment in his gaze. 

Under it, Garrosh clenched his jaw. He shot back, a bit more defensive than he intended, “And what about you, Thrall? Aren’t you late for your meeting?”

The Warchief leaned back in his chair. He looked down at the floor once more, shaking his head a bit, then taking another swig from his mug. When he swallowed, he calmly replied, “Not today, no. The Alliance has put all our meetings on hold until tomorrow morning so that their king might return to Stormwind.”

“Scared of Yogg-Saron, is he?” Garrosh let out a guffaw, though it wasn’t without a twinge of regret that he couldn’t quite place. If he had known the king was _leaving,_ he would have said more when they adjourned last night. He would have gloated, perhaps, or maybe something…more, but Garrosh couldn’t bring himself to think about it.

Instead, he huffed, conjuring an image of the king’s face in his mind, and holding it there as he stomped over to the table. He took a sausage off of Thrall’s plate and took a bite. The Warchief said nothing until he had flung himself onto the chair beside him and had finally kicked off his boots. 

Then, Thrall went on to explain, “No. Today is his birthday, and he has traveled home to celebrate with his subjects. It’s a human custom. He should be back in the morning.”

Garrosh mulled over this information for a moment. He finished the sausage, licked his fingertips, and then eyed the remaining piece. Thrall slipped a hand on the table between them, most pointedly between Garrosh’s fingers and the corner of his plate. The Overlord conceded, crossing his arms over his chest and pressing back into his chair. 

“They celebrate their birth?” He pressed, feeling his ire starting to rise. If it was his failed attempt at a second breakfast or this new information about humans getting to him, though, he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t dwell on _why_ it made him mad, however. He just ran his mouth as he so often did:

“What a stupid thing to celebrate. It’s not like being born is some great feat. Celebrate his father for courting a mate, or something. It’s not like Wrynn had a hand in it.”

It looked as if Thrall were opening his mouth to respond to his ‘father’ comment, but whatever he had wanted to say never left the tip of his tongue. He instead picked up his fork—undersized between Orcish fingers—and used it to spear his sausage. After a few bites, he explained with his usual evenness: 

“It’s just their way. They all do it, from the lowest peasant to the highest king. Though I suspect the celebrations in Stormwind are more elaborate than the ones I remember in Hillsbrad. I wouldn’t know. Maybe you can ask Jaina when she gets back.”

“Hmph, so she’s gone, too, huh? At least there’s that.” Garrosh didn’t need to glance in Thrall’s direction this time to know he was regarding him with a disappointed frown, and this time Garrosh didn’t quell from it, either. Leaning forward, then back in his chair, the Overlord readjusted, crossed his arms over his chest, then went on to muse, “Funny how the two of them find time to galivant around Azeroth while our soldiers assemble on Ulduar’s steps. Maybe we should move ahead without them if they’re going to waste time on bullshit.”

“Nothing we can’t accomplish tomorrow can be done today, Garrosh. Take some time to relax. Explore Dalaran. Get a drink with your men. The Alliance wouldn’t tell us to forgo our autumn rites, and we aren’t going to shame them for attending a royal ceremony.” 

The Warchief paused for a moment, took one final sip from his coffee, and then set the mug off to his right. With that, he let out a slight laugh: a most unexpected sound to Garrosh’s already-frustrated ears. 

Garrosh turned and shot the other orc a look; almost apologetically, Thrall hurried to voice the source of his sudden amusement, “In any case, I don’t think the House of Nobles would have let him out of it even if he had wanted to remain here. The aristocracy takes such chances to show off very seriously.”

“He’s a weak leader, then, to let his underlings control his movements.”

“No. He’s smart,” Thrall contended, gently, but with conviction. Knowing better than to cut in now, Garrosh fell silent and allowed him to finish. The Warchief went on, “The last thing he needs is to lose the support of the landed families while trying to fund a war. Let the nobles show off for a day, for all our sakes. All of our soldiers will eat better because of it.”

Knowing there wasn’t any arguing with that, no matter how much Garrosh _wanted_ to insist the Horde would be fine on their own, he just grit his teeth and pushed back his chair. Thrall barely lifted his head to regarded him as he stomped back over to tucked his axe into his belt. “Well, I still think it’s stupid,” he muttered under his breath, neither expecting nor receiving an answer. He yanked open the door, tossed his head just enough that his ponytail swished behind him, and called back in a voice loud enough to be heard five doors down from the orcs’ room in the Violet Citadel, “In any case, I’ll be out in the yard with our troops. At least one of us should be doing something other than idling.”

With that, he closed the door behind him and set off down the hall once more. He regarded the bathroom door with a scowl, recalling Thrall’s words, and purposely choosing to defy them. He wasn’t sure why the whole thing made him so angry, but a small nagging in the pit of his chest suggested that this didn’t start or end with impatience. 

He tried his best to force the feeling aside as he stomped down the winding staircase; at every turn, however, thoughts of nobles bowing to Wrynn with their hands outstretched in obeisance flooded his mind like water spring free through leaks in a dam. Growling, and all but charging through the main hall and out onto the stairs, he made for the wolf pens hoping to find some reprieve.

‘Stupid,’ he thought to himself, ‘Absolutely stupid.’ And yet, when he caught sight of Varian’s face on a sign outside the Silver Enclave, he let his gaze linger a few more moments than he should have.

____________________

Garrosh finished helping in the stables at noon, and by six in the evening he was satisfied that he had put in enough hours with his troops in the training yard. He took to Filthy Animal for supper with two of his generals, and afterwards hit up the Legerdemain Lounge for a pint or two of beer. He would never admit it, but he preferred a good dwarven stout to any of the venoms the trolls tried to market as drink.

A stout or two quickly became three or four, and after four he even tried a shot of something a nearby blood elf swore by. As his gaze became hazy, he relaxed on his stool and listened to two humans chattering away in Common at the table behind him.

“A lion?” One of them gasped. Garrosh didn’t need to look to know the other was nodding. “A real one? But that must have cost—” 

“A fortune, I know. The Rutherfords are desperate to get in the king’s good graces. Pretty Miranda Rutherford’s fixing her gaze on the throne, I’d guess, with her father’s money behind her.”

“Lady Miranda? You’re out of your mind!” The first speaker laughed, setting down his mug with a ‘clunk’ on the table. He muttered a word or two Garrosh didn’t understand, then went on to say, “She’s a good fifteen years older than the prince, at least. There’s no way his Majesty would settle for an arrangement like that.”

“For the prince? No, no. I’m not talking about for the prince. No. I’ve heard the king’s bed has been barren as Windrunner’s tomb since he got back from Kalimdor. If I had to guess, I’d guess she’s trying to make an _impression,_ if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I do,” they laughed, and Garrosh clenched his fist around his shot glass until it cracked. Shoving it out of the way, he grimaced, again assaulted by images of the human king among a cluster of hungry nobles. This time, he didn’t even have the wherewithal to chastise himself for thinking that way, instead dwelling on it until his face burned and his lips pursed taut around his tusks. 

They finished laughing, and then paused, and then one of them added in what was clearly supposed to be a whisper but was audible to Garrosh and anyone else within a chair or two’s distance: “Yeah, well, from the looks of it, his heart is as cold as the Banshee Queen’s hands. Lost a part of himself in Kalimdor, or so they say. After Katrana, I wouldn’t be shocked if he’s sworn off women completely.”

Garrosh had heard enough. All but slamming his gold onto the table, he kicked back his chair and headed back out into the street. The weight of his footfalls drew a glance or two, but he didn’t pay them any heed. He wanted to be out under the sky—such as it was, perpetually lavender and humming with energy that set his nerves on edge.

He walked for a while, though his inebriation made it hard to count the minutes. The streets were mostly empty at this hour, and he let his feet take him wherever they cared to go. He passed a store just as the owner hung a closed sign on the door. As he approached the Violet Citadel, he caught an elvish giggle or two from a room somewhere overhead. 

He paused at the bottom of the stairs, catching a hint of movement under the arch leading into the Silver Enclave. He wasn’t sure why he lingered, but soon he was glad he did. After a moment, a single cloaked figure emerged from the shadows and lifted his eyes towards the tower looming to Garrosh’s left.

In the glow of a nearby streetlight, Garrosh caught sight of two grey eyes and a familiar scar cutting the figure’s nose almost in two. 

‘Wrynn.’

Garrosh thought he had stayed silent, but from the way Varian quickly dropped his gaze it was clear he had spoken the word aloud. The human’s stance suddenly changed; a hand darted out from underneath his cloak and tossed back his hood. When Garrosh saw his face again, he wasn’t wearing the same cautious look he had donned moments before, but instead a scowl: blatant, unhindered. 

“What do you want?” The king all but hissed under his breath. 

Garrosh took a step or two closer, emboldened by the alcohol he had consumed. “Left your party early, I see. Did something happen? You look like a thief, wrapped up in your cloak like that.” 

He had intended to sound insulting, but the words that left his lips sounded more curious than accusatory. He mentally scolded himself for his mistake. Even if he felt a twinge of hopefulness at Wrynn’s choice not to spend the night with some noble, he didn’t want to show or address why those feeling rose in his chest. He slapped on a glower, hoping to make up for whatever else had sprung to life in his eyes.

But, it seemed, Varian might have noticed something out of the ordinary. He took a step closer and regarded Garrosh with a searching look. “I had had enough,” he admitted with surprising honesty. Perhaps whatever he had consumed at his party had loosened his tongue, as well. “Why? Why do you ask? Were you out here waiting for me, Garrosh?”

“No! No,” Garrosh exclaimed. His voice seemed to echo off every wall, but he didn’t care. The last thing he wanted was for Varian to get the wrong impression. He hadn’t been waiting. That needed to be abundantly clear. He didn’t even know Varian would be coming back that night, let alone so soon. He had just been walking, heading back to his room. He had just—

“All right,” Varian cut in, shaking Garrosh from his thoughts. His tone was unreadable, and his grey eyes equally so as they scanned Garrosh’s face. Feeling the look a bit too keenly, Garrosh took an interest in the door to their right instead. Varian continued, unhindered, “Well, I need to sleep. Stand out here all night if you want. Good night.”

With that, the human brushed past him; for a moment, Garrosh was left stunned in the halo of the streetlamp.

Then impulse took over, and without fully hashing out what he intended to say, he spoke up again, quieter, but none-the-less resolute: “There’s a white wolf pup, an albino. My stablemaster named him Lo’gosh. Do you want to see?” 

Varian stopped. Garrosh did, too, and his heart leapt in his chest when he realized what he’d just said. He opened is mouth to laugh, to hurriedly sputter and take it back, but before he could, Varian replied: 

“Yes.”

The word sent a stab of adrenaline through Garrosh that chased away any remnant of his drunken haze. He turned on his heels to face the king. The three stairs between them brought them almost eye to eye. Unsure how to proceed from here, Garrosh spat out the only thing he could think to say: “Okay. Follow me.”

Much to his surprise, Varian complied. 

They took off together down the street. Varian pulled his hood back over his hair, and Garrosh stayed a pace or two in front of him, willing his mind not to wander back to the discussion he’d overheard at the bar. A lion was one thing, but a white wolf? He wanted to gloat, but gloating meant admitting the parallel to himself, and he couldn’t afford to do that. He instead set his lips into a line and focused on stepping through the crack in the wall and out onto a floating platform where the Horde’s mounts had been carefully penned. 

The king followed, his boots sinking into the mud left in Garrosh’s wake. Once they were out in the open, the wind whipped about them, ruffling Garrosh’s ponytail and biting his cheeks. As they ducked into the makeshift stable, however, they found themselves mostly shielded. The wind’s whistle died down and gave way to a silence begging to be broken.

Garrosh quickly decided he had to be the one to do it. He let out a grunt, then stepped around a bucket of rabbit carcasses and past a trough of water. Reaching out, he unlatched the pen and nudged open the gate. Varian didn’t need to be told to stay close as they both shuffled inside. 

When the door fell back into place, it made a slight crack. At the sound, a pile of fur on the other side of the enclosure stirred, then yelped, then untangled to reveal five small puppies: three grey, one black, and one white as a ghost. 

They dispersed, and in a few bounds came hurrying over, looking up at the two warriors expectantly. Grateful for an easy into a conversation, Garrosh turned and muttered under his breath, “They’ve been fed. Don’t believe them. They’re just being greedy.”

At that, Varian cracked a smile, and the orc felt like a weight had been lifted from his back. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. The blood elves love them. They spoil them rotten. They probably think we’ve come in to pet them.”

The smile faded from Varian’s face as quickly as it had come. It didn’t take long for Garrosh to realize that that was exactly what Varian thought they had come here to do, and now he looked almost…disappointed? Hurrying to try to bring back the easy look he had worn moments before, Garrosh hurried to explain:

“I mean, you can if you want. They’re used to it. They won’t bite. I know how you people love treating animals like your pets.” 

He really hadn’t meant the last bit, and for a moment, it seemed Varian might protest. His mouth fell open a bit, and his brows drew together, his eyes taking on some of their usual sharpness. In the stable’s lamplight, they looked almost green, like the churning sea off the coast of Borean Tundra. They shot a glance in his direction, and then down at the puppies. All at once, the king seemed to make up his mind.

Kneeling in the hay, he withdrew his glove and set it beside his right knee. He then extended the palm of his now-bare hand. The puppies gave him a sniff, and then the white one, ‘Lo’gosh,’ stepped forward, flicking his tongue against the heel of his hand, then nuzzling into his touch. 

Standing a few inches away, Garrosh watched with his brows slightly raised and his arms unwinding to rest at either side of his body. The cluster of puppies squealed and pressed in to get closer to the king. 

Lo’gosh, they had called him. Was there really something to the rumors, the myth that the spirit of a wolf had come down and selected this human, of all people, to be his vessel? Silhouetted in the lamplight, Varian’s figure seemed to grow. The more at ease he became, the more impressive his presence felt. 

The wolves clustering around him yipped and wagged their tails. Varian laughed, and the sound—and his figure, and the ease with which they existed in each other’s presence—made Garrosh’s heart leap in his chest. 

Somewhere in the distance, a magical clock chimed twelve times, but they lingered together another hour at least while Varian tousled the pups and Garrosh leaned back against the gate watching and wondering if he was truly seeing this human for the first time.

____________________

A few years passed, and one night Garrosh and Varian rendezvoused, as they were wont to do, in a cave in Ashenvale forest. Garrosh shoved Varian against the wall and kissed him, working his fingers beneath his tunic and tugging it off and over his head. He let the man take him, fingers clamoring for purchase on his sides as he let him thrust into him. Throwing back his head, he moaned his name. Varian muffled his own cry against the orc’s neck, and the two of them melded together.

Sweaty and spent, they lingered together. After an hour or two, Garrosh expected Varian to rise as he often did and grunt out some excuse about needing to make it to camp or having a meeting at dawn. Much to his surprise, nothing was said. The king just wandered over to his bag, withdrew a bottle of wine, and passed it in Garrosh’s direction. With a pensive look on his face, he wandered to the cave’s opening to relieve himself, with all his belongings ensuring his swift return. 

Unable to help himself, Garrosh peeked into the open bag. In the empty space where the wine had been, he caught sight of a note adorned in a flourishing elven script: 

“For King Varian Wrynn, on his birthday.”

All at once, Garrosh remembered: that day in Northrend, their meeting on the steps and the hour they had spent in the stables. The day their secret relationship began. Worried that he had been a fool not to notice, let alone not to mention it, he opened his mouth and readied an embarrassed excuse to justify his forgetting. 

When Varian returned, however, he seemed unperturbed. He zipped closed his pants, then gestured down at the unopened bottle of wine against Garrosh’s thigh. “You gonna open that, Garrosh,” he chided, but without any meaningful edge to it, “Or do you need me to do it for you?”

Anything Garrosh had been prepared to say fell flat. He grunted, shook his head, then reached down and uncorked the bottle, before taking a swig and passing it into Varian’s hands.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Flarenwrath!! I love you! ♥


End file.
